


You'll have to ask your dad

by DefenstrationProtestation (Sand_Cursive)



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: And you had so much potential but you never graduated, Angst, But you're stuck in a corner, Character Study, Doing your best to hold on to everyone who trusted you and make them feel like it was worth it, Don't be fooled by the title it's not a comedy fic sorry, I don't know I'm writing that Simeon fic rn and it made me think things about Lucifer, It got so much more angsty than I expected uh, Just this vast blankness and the feeling of missed opportunities, Let's call it, Lucifer speculation, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation, Sort of like being in that period after you leave school, Trying to justify all the choices you've made and all the sacrifices you've caused, You had your whole life laid out before you and suddenly there's nothing there anymore, You thought you could make a difference, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:34:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24562459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sand_Cursive/pseuds/DefenstrationProtestation
Summary: He was he was he was.But heisheis he is. Still here, only diminished.
Comments: 18
Kudos: 63





	You'll have to ask your dad

**Author's Note:**

> Lucifer made his choices, drew his line in the sand. And now he has to live with the fall.

XIV

He can feel the start of a migraine coming on. He presses gloved fingers to his temple, trying to massage away the ache. “So _please_ explain to me. **How** could either of you possibly think this was a good idea?”

The guilty parties at least have the sense to appear contrite, although he suspects that it’s a show put on for his benefit. Not that false apology has ever gotten them anywhere. He leans back in the leather of his tall wingback chair, one hand cupping his elbow. 

“It wasn’t _my_ fault—” 

“He said it would be—”

The way they’re talking over each other is compounding his headache. “Stop.” They don’t, and he closes his eyes and tries to remember if he still has an aspirin somewhere in his desk. Barbatos had kindly furnished him with a case of the medication at his last visit to the House, but he’s gone through them with alarming speed. “STOP.”

He’s more forceful now, and the perpetrators fall blissfully silent. He wonders if they didn’t hear him the first time, or if they only heard his growing rage the second. Considers rifling through his middle drawer and dismisses it just as quickly. It hardly matters right this second. He’d never take the pill(s) in front of them anyway.

“You realize that this would have caused _unbelievable_ trouble for Lord Diavolo.” Lucifer finally opens his eyes, tries to impress upon them the severity of this crime with the force of his glare. Clearly he’s doing a good job because the demons in front of him _flinch_. “You’re lucky that I caught you before anything actually happened.”

“If we were lucky you wouldn’t have caught us at all,” his brother murmurs, not quietly enough to go unheard. Lucifer glowers at him, and the demon stammers something that could loosely be considered ‘Sorry’. 

Lucifer grimaces and closes his eyes. 

It was never like this. _Before_. 

It’s a dividing line in his life, clear boundary between _then_ and _after_. A jagged, hacking cut that delineates the illustrious, respected ease of his previous position with this tragedy of enslavement. Starting from very near the top of the ranks only to be some Prince’s pet. And certainly, he keeps some degree of autonomy. But freedom only exists with choice, and all of his have been taken from him now.

He leaves them dangling upside-down from the central stairway. They’re needlessly noisy; sobbing and begging for him to let them down. Clearly they don’t realize that he’s being absurdly, _insultingly_ gentle with them this time. They’re only saved from more brutal retribution by dint of the fact that they never actually managed to follow through with their ludicrous plans. (But the _time_ they’d taken to plan, the sheer _scale_ of their efforts. If they applied themselves as readily to lessons as to . . . mischief? Revenge? ~~Disrespect~~. They’d easily be top of their classes). 

He walks down hallways, soothed by the muted noise of his footsteps on vivid red carpet. The soundless quality of his motion reminds him of the way he’d glide through clouds, every touch gossamer and mist. But nothing is the same. He used to command _legions, **respect**_. Now all he does is babysit his truculent brothers, keep them in the Prince’s good graces so they can continue to live somewhat comfortably in this formerly alien domain. Work and corral and berate like a beleaguered suburban mother with too many children and not enough time. 

It’s a far cry from the easy authority, the thoughtless command. A simple flicker of his beautiful wings and they had fallen into perfect line, formation marked by the even meter of his flapping. Had taken perfect stance and instruction, had picked up weapons or lain them down at his urging. Every directive unquestionable and absolute. 

There’s a shout from down the hall, the pounding of restless feet. 

He closes his eyes, pausing in the dead centre of the carpet. Takes a deep breath and feels the way the air slides so smoothly down his throat. 

Now he can barely get six of them to sit down for a civil meal together.

VI

“He was the most glorious angel.”

“You should have seen the way he commanded the ranks, he was _stunning_.”

“He was called Morning Star because of just how much he shone.”

He was he was he was.

But he _is_ he _is he **is**_. Still here, only diminished. 

He _hates_ hearing about his glory days. Feels a sick sense of disgust in the pit of his stomach just couching them in those terms. Lord Diavolo is always so eager, so desperate for any small morsel of gossip, any crumb of information. Lucifer has worked for _centuries_ for this man, unfailing, loyal, competent, and yet it still feels like he’s trying to prove that he was a worthy investment. ~~Doesn’t he have any merit outside of his scrubbed-out legend?~~

He pours himself another glass of Demonus as he ignores the Prince’s wheedling. Takes a long, slow sip that turns into a chugging of the entire portion just to make a point. He won’t be answering any questions about his time in the Celestial Realm. Not tonight. 

Not ever.

After all, every memory is pain and regret, conviction and _yearning_. A crippling addiction that waits just beneath skin (a _disgusting_ adjustment, this _heavy_ physical form), an irritation so incessant he would claw, scrape, _gouge_ to remove it. 

He’d tried, in the beginning. Had felt the want and disgust in such perfect, equal agony that he had tried to rip himself apart if only to find the source and have the satisfaction of crushing it, tangible, between his fists. Weeks where he’d screamed himself bloody and hoarse in deep, sequestered isolation, nights battered into pulpy sameness with the blanking relief of pain. He remembers the feeling of it, slick fingertips stained with black, no longer bleeding light but purulence. Distracted briefly from his self-persecution with the chiaroscuro of his hands. 

All his wounds had healed too fast. Even sloppy with power and rage and the shameful stirrings of relief he hadn’t been able to make the damage last. Hadn’t been able to carve his failure into his skin the way it had been carved into his heart. 

When he’d emerged from this self-imposed exile there wasn’t the slightest hitch in his step. Just a small adjustment of new clothes, and a pair of gloves made of wyvern hide treated in Hell’s lava vents; material so tough even _his_ nails couldn’t pierce them. His brothers-in-arms, ~~what few of them survived~~ , had been in various states of transformation and despair. Not living, but mulling about in a somnambulist’s nightmare, all apathetic nihilism and wretchedness. 

He’d stepped forwards, hair impeccable, suit clean, and surveyed them all with lost eyes and the guilt of damning them for his foolish crusade. Felt the burden of their pain and their loss as physical as weights, extra mass creating gravity, pulling him down farther, farther, farther. Could feel every layer of hell colliding with impact, fast enough to render him speechless.

And _still_. They’d turned to him, faces flickering with awareness, waiting and silent and _trusting_. 

They’d followed him so _far_. 

He appraised the mess of them and felt the pieces of his heart shuddering, edges barely holding to coherent shape. Noticed the absence and acknowledged the shock of it crumble in his chest, a cliff’s edge falling to the sea. Took a breath, just to feel the burn of air reduced to soothing breeze down his throat. 

“Let’s go home.”

They’d exchanged glances, flinches, _looks_ , and he didn’t need their eons of history to decode them. He could see the question hovering just over their heads, almost legible enough to read. Could feel their uncertainty, their hesitation. Their fear and confusion. But he wasn’t crazy. ~~Not yet.~~

“It’s gone.” The youngest of them, a broken whisper. _It_. Too much pain to acknowledge, too much lost to weep. He watched as he took his twin’s hand, squeezed so hard he could hear the _crack_ of breaking bone without so much as a shiver of recoil. 

“Lucifer.” His third in command, miserable, face screwed in painful contortion. Lucifer could see the sparkle of something wet, sizzling, at the corner of his closed eyes. “We don’t _have_ a home.”

He'd looked over them, a commander inspecting the fractured remains of his troops. They'd believed in him, fought with him, were hurt and scarred and exiled with him. A ~~seven~~ six point constellation, each star plummeting in perfect concert. 

They went down together. 

He crossed one hand over his chest, could feel the strange thrum of _something_ pumping there, in the cavity that used to be filled with luminescence. He would protect them. Now. Forever. Whatever he had to do. 

Lucifer smiled, and it might be tinged with sadness and the anguish of heartbreak, but. It was real. It was something. 

“Then we’ll have to make one.”

And. Fool that he was. He’d actually thought that they _could_.

  
“Lucifer?” 

He’s jolted from painful recollection by the Prince’s strangely subdued voice. He casts a narrowed eye at the two empty bottles of Demonus on the table and decides the change in volume is probably the sweet gift of intoxication. Places his glass back on the surface and tries to pretend he was listening.

“Yes?”

But the Prince only frowns, leans a little too close into Lucifer’s space. “Are you alright?”

If he had any laughter in him left, he’d lose it now. He can barely remember the last time he was alright. But Lucifer only looks down at the dregs of wine left in his glass, eyes low. “Yes, Lord Diavolo. Of course.”

VII

He had _blindly_ despised him for the first century or two. Swapping a life of slavery for a life of servitude. The Prince was used to an absurd freedom, had called him at every hour for the slightest whim. Had run him haggard with his careless attitude and callous disregard. He’d felt the full severity of his bargain with each endless task, the weight of his price heavy in papers and effort and time. And he did not understand how to live within these almost arbitrary rules.

Except for one.

The Lord as master. Loyalty unwavering, unquestioned. Distant. 

He knew how to navigate _those_ steps at least, and he clung to this last comprehensible shred of familiarity. Hung ceremony like armour over his chest and tried to stand firm against an endless onslaught. Unbelievable impositions clearly designed to humiliate or amuse, depending on his mood. Invitations to dinner, changing uniforms, all piled up over real work. Toiling, administrative drudgery so soul-numbing he knew he must have traded his away. 

He remembers the reluctance. The way he’d forced himself awake every morning, felt the drag of every day and thought he might be able to sympathize with his youngest brother. He’d watched the dauntless butler at the Prince’s side and felt something akin to jealousy. Lucifer wasn’t as adept at grinning, though he bore the weight of multiple indignities with what he felt must be remarkable grace. Tempered his irritation with the burden of his gratefulness, the understanding of his obligation. Listened to the Prince’s pointless musings and physically refrained from rolling his eyes, unused to the whimsy after so long adhering within strict regulation. The bones in his hands always sore from the constant pressure of his fists.

He was drowning. Unsure if it was blessing or penance to have so much work he had no room for any other thoughts. Struggling flawless through a steep learning curve, and even _then_. 

It had been an . . . _adjustment_.

He had been confused by the break in decorum, the easy, laughing grace of this large demon, loping and casual as an apex predator. Had not known what to make of such joviality in a space defined by damnation. Of a smile so easy and sincere after a universe of restraint. He couldn’t decide how to frame his responses against such a lack of gravity.

It had driven him nearly _mad_. 

Cut off and isolated. After those first few weeks — a gracious initial reprieve to allow him to adjust, to settle his brothers within their new roles (their _curses_ , their maddening spiral to singular fixation, everything replaced by instinct and desire, unused to the sudden loss of their divinely imposed self-control) — he hadn’t seen them much at all. They’d been gifted, (so _generous_ : new status, new roles, a whole new, _damn_ house (even if he’s fairly certain that was only a measured eventuality given the sudden crowding of the Prince’s castle with new and feral demons)), endowments presented with open palms, no exchange but the damning sense of increased debt. And it had crushed him, responsibility so much heavier than it had ever been in that golden, glowing sky.

He’d walked into the house ( _his_ house, _their new house_ ) for the first time in maybe a month, and with uncommon luck seen one of his former brothers-in-arms sprawled over the couch, face tucked into a cushion. He didn’t want to intrude, to bother him (the only one of them who could ever seem to find his peace), but. His shoes tapped slightly too harsh on the marble of the foyer, an adjustment he’d forgotten after so long away. 

“Lucifer.” Dazed and sleepy, a voice still tinged with dreams. The new demon had struggled upright, pushing messy bangs out of his face. Looked at him as though he couldn’t quite recognize who he was seeing. “You’re back.”

“Yes.” He’d taken off his jacket, draped it over his arm and now smoothed the lines along the back just to have something to do. Belphegor looked . . . tired, still. Aching and empty. “How are you?” 

He might have winced at that — clear indication that he hadn’t been around, hadn’t been there, where they _needed_ him and. He recognized the disconnect, the lack of meaning in his words. Angels turned to demons, ejected from their lives for their loyalty and belief. Less their halos and status ~~and a sister~~. How else could he be?

He glowered, and Lucifer didn’t flinch away but he could feel the _stab_ of it, somewhere below the intrusive growth of ribs in his chest. Belphegor didn’t bother with response. 

“What are you doing here?” 

He looked down at the jacket on his arm. He could feel his hair falling into his eyes, made no move to push it away. He’d been holed up in a study adjacent to the Prince’s, had fallen asleep in his chair more times than he could count. There were _wrinkles_ in his shirt. 

Belphegor’s face twisted with something, eyes oscillating between bright and dim. Lucifer looked into the tangle of his expression and swallowed the words he didn’t feel he had the right to say. He's _missed_ them.

But he let the silence drag on for too long. 

“Why did you do it?” Belphegor asked, turning away. Spitting and disgust, lethargy waking into anger. 

Lucifer kept his voice even, a conscious effort. “Do what?”

But Belphegor had only grabbed his pillow, stalked off and brushed harsh against him and forced his dangling jacket to slip messy to the floor. His words could have been a growl. “Don’t _pretend_.”

And Lucifer had watched him go, unbending, had felt the other’s disappointment as acute as heart-attack, had felt the previous bond of men in company altered by war and casualty transmuting to a solitary life. Each of them less their virtues and the companies of their court. 

And now maybe less a brother too.

III

When he’d first followed him, unsteady under his own weight, his burden had been left too long behind him. His legs were shaky, shoes digging into dirt, mud splashing over the hem of his pants. All his clothes hissing, holes and burns, splattered in black. And he had known it would be the height of impertinence, especially after so generous a boon, but . . . 

He had wanted to safeguard them _all_.

“Please.” His voice was still ruined, air an abrasive that tore through his lungs. “The others. . .”

“You mean the other fallen angels?” Diavolo had asked, regarding him curiously. 

“My brothers. In—” A short cough, before he’d forced himself back into control. “I have to find them.”

There was a pause, simmering, the moment before ignition. The clear beginnings of a _dangerous_ challenge. “And if I told you no?” The smile on the Prince's face hadn’t dropped at all, but his eyes were glowing as bright as the adornments on his wings. An expression that clearly read 'And what will you do then?' on a face accustomed to instantaneous obedience. But Lucifer had never once lacked for audacity. ~~How else do you rally an army against _God_?~~

"I _hand-picked_ them all. I can vouch for their ability."

"I'm sure," the Prince had said, looking pensive. "But do I really need them if I have _you?"_

"What kind of fool would ignore such obvious advantage?" Slightly not calm enough, just the barest shade of biting. He forced a glare, just to keep himself from shuttering his eyes. _Shit_.

Flashing gold, growing molten and _burning._ The edges of the Prince's smile were too sharp. "Perhaps the kind that doesn't like being called a fool." He'd stopped in place so he could turn to look at the slighter man, circling, predatory. "Your brand of loyalty doesn't bother with respect, does it?"

"I thought my history would speak for itself." Attempted nonchalance, as he gestured widely to the horizon. Suppressing the grimace of realization that he had already shown too much of his mind. He had been a decorated tactician, strategist, commander. How could he have revealed his weakness so _easily_? 

" _Ah_." He leaned forwards, considering. Lucifer felt an uncomfortable jolt as the Prince's elaborate horns knocked against the strange protrusions of his own. Weighty and unfamiliar enough to have him stagger, losing ground. ~~_Terrible_ reminder of just how far he'd gone; turned to a demon. Disgusting. _Depraved_. Crawling in the dirt like so much trash.~~ "How unpleasant."

"Loyalty isn't _blindness._ " 

"What if that's the only loyalty that I'll accept?"

He was enclosed on all sides, backed into a corner that he'd walked into foolishly. _Unforgivably_. Too much emotion, too much trauma and regret. He'd let things slip too far, felt the tight noose of desperation heavy on his neck. _Pathetic._

Bowed before a demon, he was going to have to _beg_.

“ _Please_.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Deep breaths. Something to occupy his mouth so he wouldn't lash out unwisely. He was _better_ than this. He just needed focus.

Everything was a battle. Even this. Even still. He pushed terror and alarm to the back of his mind. Tried to think clinically, rationally, find his footing. Lucifer paused, weak but unbowed, and considered this powerful being who'd swooped in with salvation. A Prince who could recognize power and was cunning enough to capture it. Categorized his remaining advantage mechanically, methodically, and offered up his most alluring aspect. A quick decision, measured for effect. “I’ll give you my wings.” 

Shock: true untempered reaction. “What?” 

It was an uneven trade, unnecessary addendum. But he needed a swift response. Needed to find them, rescue them, collect them all before they were devoured in this vicious, alien dark. And he had dealt with power before. Knew how to pull out desire, unspooled through the thinnest thread from more formidable opponents: beings who had spent all their lifetimes suppressing with dauntless discipline. And he could _see_ the temptation in bright golden eyes, intrigue and consideration. A holy grail, a magnificent trophy for his palace walls. Proof of the shackled Morning Star. Tethered to him, bound and grounded for the rest of their forevers. And after all, isn’t that what he’d asked for, when he’d demanded his ~~freedom~~ loyalty? 

He had the Prince's full attention. Wavering, just on the precipice. All he needed now was to put on a good show. And it was going to be degrading. _T_ _errible_.

Lucifer felt a tremor rocking through his arms, unfamiliar weakness. The pulsing of what must be blood running through new veins. All this _disgusting_ physicality. Cheap distraction for his impending horror.

But if he had anything, it was conviction.

He reached back with both hands, gripped at the base where scapulars met skin and _wrenched_. _Ripped_ , felt muscle tearing bodily from flesh, pain a new and unthinkable sensation. Felt the world fall away from him for the second time, vision whiting out so he could have been back home. Everything burning, _searing_ , each atom cataloged and felt; absolute agony. His consciousness split between a million, billion points, every one an execration against his pointless, foolish crusade. He was only saved from the horror of an incomplete mutilation by a burst of his fluctuating strength, power ebbing and surging, something _pulsing_ in his fingers too foreign for him to name.

He barely had the energy to fling the appendages at the Prince, bleeding black and smoking. _Shuddered_ with the sudden lightness, the adjustment of his mass to gravity. Reached backwards to repeat the motions before all cognizant thought was torn away as brutally as his wings.

“Stop.” He almost couldn’t hear it, was only interrupted by a firm, warm hand on his own. Arresting his wrists, far stronger and more steady than he could even pretend to approach. Everything shaking, all these new muscles and joints, electrical signals singing, too hot and _screaming_ through his body, pieces and parts that he’d never had before. “I didn’t say I’d accept your terms.”

“Then what,” he’d ground out, teeth gnashing, bones grinding together, uncomfortable contortions pushing against the skin of his face. He left the regret of haste behind him, desperate to come to some resolution while he still had sense. “Do you _want?_ ”

“I’m sorry.” At the Prince’s words he’d closed his eyes, felt the sheer panic of futility. They were _scattered_ , who _knew_ where, each alone and _damaged_ and _changing_ somewhere. Vulnerable and frightened or enraged. He needed to. He _needed_ — 

The Prince was saying something but the words were flitting, out and in, his mind unable to hold onto them for long enough to decipher. “Didn’t — already — enough. . .”

He could see the butler stepping up, plucking his amputated wings off the ground and cradling them carefully, respectfully, to his chest. Remembered the casual consideration in his eyes as he’d stared at the down, stained and dark as night. Stroked one soft, gloved hand over the still-twitching curve as Lucifer finally dropped off into the sweet void of oblivion, even blacker than the damnation of his feathers.

IV

“Lucifer, you’re the _worst._ ”

Green-yellow eyes, poison and disdain. Lucifer stares down into the blonde’s impressive glower, arms folded across his chest. He refuses to reward this behaviour with even the _slightest_ slip in his control. “Then I can’t imagine how it must feel to be even _lower_ than me.”

Satan’s glare intensifies, even if his posture remains the same. Immaculate, almost deceptively relaxed. Centuries have eased all his reflexive response, even if they’ve done nothing to cool his fire. He can see it burning still; his eyes are the only place he’s never quite managed to disguise. The only part of him that still resembles the foundling he was before.

They'd discovered him, singed and naked and feral, wreaking havoc in the Devildom.

After Lucifer had stuttered back into awareness, had followed with limping, grimacing step until the Prince and his steward had finally relented, found the display too pitiful to allow and called his chariot. After they had sped, rushed and mad to every corner of the realm, following the map of Lucifer’s immaculate memory. After they had gathered all his soldiers, his warriors, his brothers-in-arms, plucked them from whatever sad state of spiraling depravity they’d found themselves.

The Prince had continued, traveling too quick to the heart, spurring on his beasts with the same intention as every other step of their journey. Lucifer, still dazed with pain ~~and weak with it~~ had turned his head, counted blearily and hoped he had enough cognition left at least for that. Five ~~angels~~ demons. And himself. They were all that was left.

So he had been shocked when the party had pulled up to carnage, had seen a crater of destruction with a dervish in the middle, green and yellow and glowing malice.

And, to his unending horror, felt something of that beast _call_ to him. A shock, like electricity arcing between them, the wrath of this stranger clear family to his own.

The creature must have sensed him. Too feral to even fully be a demon, he'd turned his head and seen them, narrowed in with pinpoint accuracy and _rushed_ , eating up the ground in impossible leaps. Had tensed, jumped, _descended_ on the wretched group of them. Claws out, tail lashing. Every point directed and sharp. Seeking out _damage_.

He'd struggled upright, so much effort just to keep the panting of his breath inconspicuous. He had to _protect_ them. This was so much more of his mess, his own inability. He couldn't let anything else-

The demon prince stood, casual as you please, and plucked the feral almost-demon direct out of the air, one large hand wrapped around his throat. The creature clawed, scratched, but aside from some superficial nicks, was arrested in futility.

"Is he one of yours?" he'd asked, looking dubiously at the nude, animalistic man. The segmented tail whipped, harsh across his forearm, but he didn't drop him, just grabbed it in his other hand. A gutteral, keening growl rising up out of the almost-demon's throat.

"I'm afraid so," Lucifer had said, sighing. He had no more energy for denial, and little left for strategy. He was barely even able to accept his new realities as they were unfolding, and now another complication was rising in a sea of them. No matter. It wouldn't be the first new-born he'd have to discipline. But.

He was so _tired_.

He affected a controlled collapse back into his seat. He could _feel_ the others staring at him, wide-eyed and questioning, but mercifully not a single one of them voiced their confusion. He ignored every glance, turned to look at the splintering edges of this new and strange horizon, teeth biting at the sky. He must have changed more than he realized. 

The landscape was almost beautiful.

For the rest of their journey, this other-demon remained strapped into the seat behind him, held down by his ~~former~~ third and second in command. And finally, _mercifully_ , he felt like he might be able to close his eyes.

V

He wonders if this is how his father felt.

Torches flickered over his face. Sudden spots of light, studding the spiraling stairs like fiery stars. It was cold. Temperature — a new and frankly unwelcome sensation. 

His shoes clicked, incessantly echoing back at him from within that curved space, adding dimension to his shadow. Descending ( _lowering_ himself) to reach the accidental addition to his ranks. 

He could hear the snarling before he’d even reached the bottom.

He had been too fixated, too full of untamable emotion; here was proof. Manifest evidence of his hubris and stupidity. A caged animal trapped within the confines of the Prince’s dungeon, strapped and chained like a prisoner. Like a curious specimen poached for display. 

The blonde had snapped at him the second he’d set foot in the dank room. Everything iron and stone, too cold, too damp. Lucifer had walked in, relaxed, had peered through rusted bars to stare into bestial eyes. The newborn had strained so hard against his manacles he had torn one stone from the wall. Flung it with instinctive grace, the arc of its momentum cracking the iron right in front of Lucifer’s face. 

He hadn’t flinched, of course. He couldn’t afford to repeat mistakes.

“You can’t continue like this.” 

Growling. furious. Wordless rage that communicated itself better than any vocabulary could. His newly-freed hand couldn’t quite reach him, but his claws were arced, sharp. 

“Otherwise you’ll have to remain here.”

A jerking swipe that resulted in a _crack_. The crumbling of stone and maybe a wrist, Lucifer wasn’t sure. Blood was seeping though, dark and _oozing_ from beneath the heavy restraints. (Not that they seemed to be doing a particularly good job). Lucifer watched impassively, trying to decide a course. 

It had been easier, with angels. They _wanted_ to be better. To do good, to fulfill their divinely-handed destinies. The mere promise of approval had been enough to have them tittering, feathers rustling with anticipation. Everything that he had wanted, _they_ had wanted too. Until. 

Lucifer swallowed a sigh — no signs of weakness, especially against such an unknown element. No excuse to let him sniff out any failings, perceived or otherwise. But. He didn’t know the first thing about demons. 

~~Even if he _was_ one, now~~.

“Would you like to leave?”

More formless roaring. This creature needed to calm down; he was going to be rendered mute by the sheer strength of his lungs. The spittle flecked against the bars was too dark to be saliva. 

Lucifer considered the animal, mindless with rage. Had _this_ been _inside_ him, before his body had decided it could no longer contain the force of it, had ejected it thoughtlessly out into the sky? 

Well, if it was. Lucifer had certainly managed it much better.

He snapped his fingers. Even through these new gloves the sound was sharp, bounced energetically around the cavernous space. A metallic melody of falling chains. 

The demon wasn’t too blinded by wrath to be surprised. Stopped, momentarily, blinking wide and confused before he’d stalked up to the metal of his cage. Promising. At least there was the suspicion of something _else_. Something beneath the terrible emotion that had been piloting him. 

It was still there, of course. Bleeding out, vibrant, lifting straight from skin. But tempered. Not controlled — it was clearly still controlling _him_ — but less aggressive. 

The blonde was close enough for rust to flake against his cheek. Stared suspiciously out at Lucifer with mistrust in dark and glittering green-yellow eyes. 

“I believe I asked you a question.” 

Silence, although at least that was preferable to the degenerate noises he’d been making before. Lucifer waited with his arms crossed, a man who was so sure of his infinite time he could well afford patience. The other demon had no such experience. Fidgeted slightly in place, uncomfortable with stillness. Opened his mouth. Closed it. 

“Why?”

So he _could_ speak. Excellent news, Lucifer really couldn’t fathom having to start from scratch. Apparently until this point he’d literally been _too angry for words_. 

How inconvenient. 

“Because you’re _mine_.” He turned on his heel, marching away. Posture as perfect as it had always been before. In this form, he couldn’t feel the strange imbalance of being less two wings. “Are you coming?”

The whining squeak of metal as the iron door had been pushed open. Hesitation, weighed opportunity. The beast could (attempt) to jump on him, now. He certainly wasn’t looking. Guard down, relaxed. A perfect, easy target. Instead, there were only the soft taps of bare feet as he followed silently behind. 

Excellent. So he could tell when he was outclassed, too. This might be child’s play after all. 

Except.

He was never in charge of their education.

Oh he’d _tried_ , certainly. Especially in the beginning. Had looked down into a savage face and thought _I can be better than **him**_. Foolishly applied the true and tested methods that he knew others had employed in that glorious warm _before_ to no avail. Nothing was working. 

He hadn’t known what to do. 

Every attempt at education was absurdly trying. The demon was in a constant state of apoplexy, unable to manage stillness long enough to learn. Every minuscule distance gained a trial, each lesson clawed and beat and battered into the demon with almost comical force. The joke of it all being . . . he thought the beast might be _enjoying_ it. 

The most ironic curse; to bear a being the near dictionary definition of a patricide. A snarling, savage creature that stalked his every step and lashed out with sharp edges, furious. He could precisely, in a perverted twist of fate, understand the feeling.

But it was quickly getting old.

He would stay, sitting with him, always close enough to restrain, trying to force learning into that thickly clouded skull. Wrath swirling like mist so thick around him he was losing confidence in its ability to be penetrated. Trying and trying and _trying_ , beating impossibly against the wind, giving no ground but not gaining. 

So focused on his task he hadn’t even noticed himself being torn apart. 

Lord Diavolo had offered him a tutor, an officer, a disciplinarian. Lucifer had turned down all candidates. Satan was _his_ accident, and he was more than capable of handling another wayward, whinging brat. (And _oh_ , how far they’d fallen, glorified warriors reduced to base instinct and desire. Chasing gratification in short bursts, that legacy of clever, controlled prestige too far distant for them now).

And. He didn’t like admitting his mistakes.

“Stop that.” He whipped across the back of one restrained hand. The fingers flexed, spread wide and grasping, and Satan released the splintered remains of the armrests. “This is the third chair this week.”

“I’m _so_ sorry.” Sarcasm. Still, that implied a level of intelligence that was growing. Was that good news? He was learning enough control to manage sentences, but if left alone he might become sly enough to cause _real_ problems. “Why don’t I focus on something more _disposable_.” 

“What an excellent idea.” Ignoring the implications.

Lucifer threw him a book, something trite and pointless that he’d plucked from one of his visits into town. The demon was already working, long nails raking through the pages, so many words shredded, drifting through the air like snow. He didn’t even read the cover.

Lucifer held in a sigh, watching. So little progress, after so many weeks. Peak inefficiency, whiling away time only to remain in place. He _could_ do it. Of course, of course, _of course_. But he could not put off his new duties forever. Perhaps it was time to take the Prince up on his generous offer.

He didn’t tell the demon, of course. There could hardly be a point. Besides, he resisted every interaction with such ferocity, the surprise could only come as relief. Simply left him, sitting solitary in that darkening room. Locked the door behind him and gone to find his new master.

In a strange fit of generosity, the Prince hadn’t even made him beg.

“Maybe it would help if you were _here_.” It wasn’t an accusation, not quite. But the implication was savage enough. 

Lucifer checked his timepiece, tucked it back into his waistcoat. Didn’t look his second in his somber blue-yellow eyes. “I have to go.”

“ _Lucifer_. They haven’t seen you in so _long_.” Almost pleading. And he remembered it, the necessity of appearance, the careful maintenance of morale. _Rallying the troops_. But. He had work to do. And . . . The longer he spent away, the harder it was getting to face them.

“Hm. Keep them out of trouble for me.”

“They _need_ you.”

And they do. Oh, of _course_ they do. But not like that. No, he needed to let . . . _Mammon_ (Mammon, Mammon, Mammon. That was his name, now, after all. No more of those rounded diphthongs, the bell of those angelic titles replaced with more fitting appellation), take care of them. He was always better, at that.

He’d left him behind, almost stalking away through the halls. Pace fast (not _escaping_ , he wasn’t conceding only bowing to his duty), so quick he almost didn’t notice the shine of green in shadow, careful cloaking. Barely managed to step out of the way of raking claws.

“ _Lucifer_ ,” not spitting, not quite. “I didn’t realize you’d returned.”

“I haven’t.” There was a pause, but no explanation. He hardly felt interested in explaining himself to a demon that had learned only to lay curses at his shadow. 

“ _Good_.” Said with too much tension to be relief. 

Lucifer leveled him with an impassive glance, stepped to the side, around and out. Whatever this was, he didn’t have time for it. Walked away and this time noticed the shift of air, sidestepped a blow that would have felled a lower demon, that would have been at most his minor inconvenience. Met Satan’s gaze and felt the sharp, jarring shock of history, an expression he might have recognized if God’ face had been a mirror.

Maybe all ~~men~~ demons despise their makers.

So even after all that learning — suppression, control, literacy and critical thinking and all that glorious, perfect strategy — he was still his sin, wrath simmering just under skin. 

Lucifer sighed, turned swiftly on his heel and walked away. A pointless exchange. He could feel eyes on his back, watching him go, near _roiling_ with the force of that strong emotion.

Perhaps they were all destined to repeat the sins of their father ~~s~~. 

VIII

"-fer. Lucifer."

  
He jolts upwards, barely catching the pen dangling in one hand. Flicks his gaze downwards so he can be sure he hasn't accidentally scribbled something on the paperwork in the midst of his drowsing. Clean. He stretches subtly upright, trying to work out the soreness of his muscles. Damn, what time is it?

"Are you alright, sir?" The Prince's butler . . . Bortho . . . Bobbin . . . Barbed . . . Barbatos! Barbatos, has settled a tray with a pristine ceramic teacup, edged in gold. Something that smells dark and bitter wafts out. _Coffee_. Elixir of the devils, he supposes. It was an acquired taste but. He can no longer function without it.

Lucifer reaches out, grabs the cup with one hand and leans back in his chair. "Perfectly fine, thank you _Barbatos_."

The demon doesn't correct him, and he relaxes as he sips. Barbatos remains, still and watching.

"Yes?"

"Forgive me, sir. I realize it isn't my place, but I was concerned."

"Concerned?" Lucifer parrots. His eyebrows draw low, irritation simmering. Has he become such a pathetic figure that even the Prince's steward has noticed? Has he been slacking in his duties, making mistakes, _imperfections?_ He'd thought he'd been doing admirably, given the pace and the sheer volume of work to be done. But he's _concerned_ them. "I see." He replaces the cup, no longer thirsty. "And what are your concerns?"

The words that come out of his mouth next are not the ones that he'd been expecting. "When was the last time you slept?"

" _Slept?_ " He repeats the word only because he honestly can't remember. It had been such a foreign concept to him - back when he was an angel, he was able to continue working tirelessly, without fail or respite. But now . . . He picks at the edges of his gloves, _feels_ the silk touch of them against his skin. Constant pressure and sensation. It's distracting. 

"When was the last time you left this office?" Barbatos hasn't stepped forwards, but his eyes are steady. Lucifer can feel himself being analyzed, every wrinkle cataloged, every hair out of place, every dark shadow, every break in his posture. He forces himself to uncurl, returning to upright position.

"It's been some days," he answers truthfully. Barbatos nods. "I see."

There's silence for too long, and Lucifer knows, by now, that he will have to be the one to break it. "Why do you ask?"

"Your brothers-"

"Are they doing alright? Has something happened?" He's immediately awake, words harsh. Barbatos doesn't seem surprised by this sudden change in attitude, only shaking his head for quick reassurance. Frowns at him and says, "They're fine, as far as I'm aware. Lucifer, when was the last time you saw them?"

"It's been some . . . days." Or weeks or _months_ or. He can't remember the last time he'd gone home. Or to whatever facsimile they had of it, down here.

"I see." Barbatos nods to himself. "Well, I apologize for having taken so much of your time. I'm sure you're very busy." A concise bow, before he turns to leave. "If you'll excuse me."

Lucifer doesn't watch him go. He's right, after all. He's very, _very_ busy. He picks up his pen again and sighs as he pulls the next sheet of paperwork forwards. "Thank you for the coffee."

  
"Yes, Lord Diavolo?"

Lucifer doesn't like to waste time - he feels like he has so much less of it, now. Stands to attention in front of his new commander and tries not to be too obvious about the fact that he's still thinking of that last piece of paperwork that has to be completed. He already made two copies of the requisition form, but for the zoning report . . .

"Go home."

The dismissal is a slap in the face, sting more painful for its abruptness. He clear his throat and tries not to let any panic show. Surely he's been . . . He can't mean . . . "I beg your pardon, my Lord?"

"It has been brought to my attention that you have been shirking your duties."

The sheer injustice of such a false accusation would ruffle his feathers, if they were present. He stills, every muscle locking into place, one agonizing, individual pound of flesh at a time. "I apologize if there was any error in my work. If you could please clarify exactly where you _believe_ my work is lacking, I will rectify it immediately."

"How very responsible of you," Diavolo demurs, still staring at him with an impassive expression and too-bright eyes. "In that case, let me be perfectly clear."

Lucifer tenses, can already feel the sharp retribution of his incompetence. _(Impossible, he's been so_ **_careful,_** _does his job **perfectly** because he has to he has to he has to). _He's just. So. _Tired_. Maybe if he can have Barbatos just _leave_ him a full pot of coffee . . . 

"Your health is important."

". . . What?" He's shocked into standing upright, pulled out of his deferential bow. His _health?_ Irritation is already ramping, and he works quick to tamp down the expression of it on his face. The Prince might have enough free time to pull these inane jokes, but he _certainly_ doesn't, and frankly his work would go a lot faster if he'd stop interfering for ridiculous reasons. He's drawn from his internal complaints by the realization that he's still standing in the Prince's office, being rudely silent. He chances a glance at the demon's face. Instead of anger . . . Well, he isn't quite smiling, but there's a hint of it in the corner of his mouth. "My Lord?"

"If your health declines you'll be unable to complete your work to the current impeccable degree. Given that you _clearly_ haven't been sleeping" (and here Lucifer bristles, insulted by the implication that he's been getting slovenly), "I think you should return to the House of Lamentation. Take a day or so to rest before you return."

Lucifer schools his face into stillness. Anticipation is warring with offense, and he isn't sure what expression he'll end up making if he allows even the slightest emotion to slip through. He hasn't seen the others in so _long_. But he is more than capable of putting aside his fatigue, his loneliness, and pushing through with his work. He's always had an _excellent_ sense of duty, an ability to order his priorities efficiently and maintain a near-perfect standard. Still.

How have they been managing?

". . . Are you giving me a _vacation_ , my Lord?"

"Of course not,' he says, _really_ smiling now. "I'm _ordering_ one." There's a _click_ at the door and Barbatos materializes, silent and ready as though he'd simply been waiting behind it. "Go back home, relax a little while. See your brothers."

He shouldn't accept. Should be proud enough to refuse this gift, another in a long line of free favours that have already exceeded his ability to repay. He'll be drowned in debt, carried through until the violent heat death of the universe without having made a dent in his obligation. But. His brothers-in-arms, his brothers, his _family_. The only ones that he has left.

He hasn't seen them in so long.

"Thank you, my Lord." He bows, low, lets gratitude bend the rigid curve of his spine. Allows Barbatos to lead him out, a gentle presence at his side. He's going home.

IX

Raised voices. It's livelier than it ever is in the Prince's castle, decorum ingrained in every servant and floorboard and shining, golden spoon. He pauses at the entrance to the dining hall, enjoying the discordant cascade, the _life_ of argument and annoyance. They're here, they're all here. Together. _Safe_.

He's about to push the doors open when he finally identifies the topic of their disagreement.

"He fucking _left_ us!" A slam, a clatter. Belphegor, cracking a plate under the unnecessary force of his cutlery.

The words are cold water on his shoulders. Of course. He can't even dispute it — they haven't seen each other in so long. He almost wouldn't be surprised if they didn't recognize his face.

"Shut _up!_ He'll be here any minute!" Asmodeus, playing peacekeeper. 

"So what? Who cares if he hears us?" Oh, he recognizes _that_ voice, even without having many opportunities to really hear it. It's not as low as his, not as smooth — all that time spent screaming blood and wrath has damaged his throat beyond repairing. 

"Yeah! Why shouldn't he know how we feel?" 

Clearly they don't have any qualms about verbally eviscerating him. Normally it wouldn't bother him quite so much but . . . He's so _tired_. He's been working non-stop, fighting to keep his composure under the pressing rigidity of working direct beneath the Prince. Has kept his posture and his temper, let himself be isolated in a structure of cold stone. But he _misses_ them. His fearless brothers, competent warriors, bonded by struggle and trust. Individuals he would give his life to, unquestioningly, even now. He doesn't know if he has the constitution to withstand their assault. 

He turns on his heel. Maybe after a nap — everything is sagging, succumbing to the outside forces of physics and gravity. Imposing an order on his body that he is helpless to prevent. _Hells_ , he feels like he could sleep for a week. 

"And _why_ do ya think he did it? Idiot!" 

That's . . . unexpected. 

"He was obviously desperate to secure a place for himself here. Living as a peasant is beneath the mighty _Lucifer_ , isn't it?"

"And it's beneath the Great Mammon, too! So be grateful dumbass!"

"I don't want to hear that from _you_ , you stupid, scummy—"

"Hey! I'm your big bro! Show me some respect!" A _slap_ , skin connecting muffled against . . . probably the mess of Belphegor's sleep-tousled hair. It's immediately followed by the sound of something wet and dense. 

"My potatoes!" Oh. So Beelzebub _is_ there. Well, not that he _really_ thought he'd miss a meal.

"Mammon, you money-grubbing, disgusting—"

"Shut up! I know ya know why he did it, and being lonely isn't an excuse to be an ass!"

Silence. He can sense the anger, ebbing into something else. Darker and more vast. Hopeless. 

"He did it for _us_ , Belphie." Asmodeus finally seeing fit to interject. 

"Fuck off," he mutters. The volume in the room has dropped considerably. Lucifer steps back to the door, straining to hear. 

"Lillith . . ." He can feel, even through the wood, the way the air in the room changes. Everything going sombre and quiet, death an encroaching interloper in their home. Thinks of a bedroom tucked in space upstairs, pristine and untouched. An impressive bit of magic that had nearly drained him for a week. Thinks of the empty monument laid in the masoleum beneath the house. The last place for him to go when he can't reconcile his choices with this current reality. 

If only they could have kept her.

"She's gone and now so is he." Belphegor is nearly whispering now, an intimate confession Lucifer feels he never should have heard. He backs away from the door, turns on his heel and stalks away down the carpeted hall. 

Would it be kinder to tell them? Crueler? So much time has passed, whatever life she might have lived in the human world is long over. There's no danger of them discovering her, of bringing her existence to the attention of their father. 

Would it really be so bad to share the burden?

The air in his room is still slightly musty, even after he'd left the windows open all night. The mark of his neglect is far too obvious in here. There's no dust, of course (the little D's are meticulous in their work), but. 

He passes one hand over an obtrusively blank space on his wall. Colours shimmer under his palm, brushstrokes coming alive, life breathing back into canvas. Even now, when he looks at this portrait, all he can remember is the memory he'd carved into his mind. The desperate, searching attention he'd paid to an angel already disappearing in his arms. 

Maybe it wouldn't matter. If he kept this secret or not. There's nothing left for them to do, now.

Besides. He doesn't know how to talk to his brothers, anymore.

XII

It's absurdly dark. Even darker than it is outside, which is something of an accomplishment given that they live in a realm of perpetual night. He narrows his eyes, trying to distinguish any figures in the gloom.

"Leviathan?"

" _Shit!_ " There's a fumbling sound, a zipper and the heavy shifting of fabric. Another curse, as the demon stumbles out of his bathtub. "Oh. Lucifer. What is it?"

Lucifer crosses his arms, staring into the black void of the demon’s room. After the fall, his eyes had adjusted to a startling lack of light, but this . . . It’s an emptiness so complete he marvels at the fact that Leviathan isn’t blinded, blinking open into the hall.

“I came to tell you that Lord Diavolo is looking to restructure the Devildom’s forces. He requires the Grand Admiral of the Navy to be in attendance during this crucial period.” 

“Oh.” His face falls, then shutters quickly. “Right. Yeah, of course.”  
  
Strange. Clearly he was expecting something . . . _else_ , although no matter how hard Lucifer wracks his mind he can’t guess at what it might be. Well, no sense in letting things go unsaid. Dissatisfaction breeds dissent, after all, and the house is barely standing as it is.

“What?”

“What?” His response is immediate, too quick and surprised.

Lucifer doesn’t sigh, only presses his lips together. “You look like you had something to say.”

“No! No. Nothing.”

As singularly unconvincing as that is, Lucifer doesn’t exactly have time to waste and he _certainly_ isn’t going to force his brother to speak. They've spent long enough on their own; they're full fledged demons now. “If you’re sure.” He makes to leave, already turning on his heel.

“Ah—”

It’s not much, little more than a breath. Still, Lucifer pauses in place, waiting, Leviathan at his back. He’s too silent for too long. He can hear the brief metallic _clink_ as he fusses with the pull of his zipper. Fine, then.

“I noticed you received a package today.” He pauses, but no response is forthcoming. Tries to come up with some other statement to prolong the conversation. They haven't spoken together, really, in a _while_. “It was _covered_ in anti-curse markers.”

“Oh. That was just a vinyl record,” mumbled from behind him. Lucifer turns back to face him, surprising the avatar of Envy by meeting his gaze. There’s something hopeful in his eyes that Lucifer doesn’t know how to respond to. It catches him off guard. 

“I see. I hope you enjoy it.”

“You. Do you want to listen to it?” Eager balanced by unsure. A damning combination. 

“I’m afraid I don’t have that much time . . .” And the idea of spending _any_ of it listening to Leviathan’s preferred overly synthesized, saccharine glitter-pop (or whatever he calls it, Lucifer doesn’t keep track) is already giving him a headache. His fingers already itching for a warm mug of coffee. Black. 

“Oh.” Crestfallen but not surprised. Well. That wasn’t the intention. 

He can feel his face softening, shoulders unlining just slightly. Lucifer isn’t wearing a watch, but . . . What’s five or ten minutes? It’s only the two of them, standing awkwardly in the hall. No one else around to witness this slip. “Do you want a drink?”

“What?” Leviathan looks up too fast, and Lucifer is only saved from a face full of blue hair by the still-supernatural grace of his reflexes. The younger demon barely even notices the close call.

“I asked you if you’re thirsty. Lord Diavolo recently went to the human world, and while there purchased a large quantity of limited edition fruity mango character drinks.”

“Which character?” His eyes are _sparkling_ now, and Lucifer can’t decide if that’s an improvement.

“I don’t know,” he says dryly, resisting every urge to cock an eyebrow. Does it really matter? “Some sort of animal creature. Pink, I believe. With a bow.”

Like he’d respond with anything other than a ‘Yes’.

The kitchen is quiet. It’s after dinner, too early in the evening for Beelzebub to be scavenging in the pantry, plagued by his perpetual hunger, on the constant edge of starvation. Lucifer keeps thinking he should probably employ someone to do their groceries; it’s turning into a daily chore. (It implies impossibility, the sheer frequency, the _volume_ ). He just . . . hasn’t had the time.

The box is sitting on the counter, still untouched. So the sixth really _hasn't_ been in here yet. He slices the packaging with the force of one finger, pulls out a bottle with an obnoxious character head for a cap. The eyes are too big and too glittery, small pieces flaking off on his gloves. _Disgusting_.

Leviathan accepts it eagerly, admiring the shape of it, taking pictures before he even twists the cap. Lucifer decapitates his without hesitation, taking a dignified swig. It isn't bad.

He finishes it first, of course. Chucks the waste in the garbage, makes to leave. He'd meant to hand out the drink, leave his brother to his refreshment and go back to his work. But. 

He turns. Leviathan is still standing there, fidgeting in place. His fingers are worrying away the plastic label of the bottle, a soft scratching that’s peeling off the packaging. Coloured flakes fall to the floor.

“What is it?”

Away from the confines of his room, he seems smaller. Very nearly engulfed by the light and the space. Something twists in his expression and Lucifer watches as he mouths at silent words. Swallows and starts quietly. Haltingly. “I always wondered . . .”

Lucifer waits patiently, as Leviathan struggles to the end of this unwieldy thought. 

“Just. Uh. How.” A pause. “You seem busy.”

“I _am_ busy.” 

“Oh.” It can’t have been a surprise, but he seems disappointed. Lucifer very pointedly doesn’t check the clock. Waits, arms crossed, watching a noticeably averted face. Leviathan puts the empty bottle to his mouth, makes the motion of a sip without any liquid. Lucifer is trying to tamp down his impatience, but. 

“Why didn’t he do it?”

“ . . . . Do what?”

“Erase us.” He pauses, voice dropping so soft Lucifer almost has to strain to hear. “Like he’d threatened to do to . . . _her_.”

Lucifer stills. Blindsided by the impromptu question. Feels ambushed, strangely vulnerable in the orange kitchen light. Startled into honesty. “Perhaps that was his plan all along. To let us be, make us . . . _examples_.”

“What?” It’s an unsettling thought, their lack of agency in their own lives. It shows clearly in his face, the obvious disquiet. 

Lucifer sighs. “It’s only a guess, of course.” (Highly educated, eons spent bathed in those holy ideals, stood right at his side). “A . . . _deterrent_ , to show the others what they might become.”

Leviathan winces. His hands go up reflexively, tracing the empty air where growths sprout when he can no longer control his form. When he turns to the very thing he used to fight against. 

This was a misstep. He can see it, embarrassingly late. A self-inflicted strike against morale. But. 

He doesn’t know what else to say.

“Don’t consider it too much. _They_ —” said with too much loathing to be calm, “can’t do anything more to us now.”

He can’t tell if that was helpful. But he’s spent the last few minutes holed up here, obliging Leviathan’s strange and sudden whim. And he has work to do.

~~He doesn't want to think about this talk about this anymore, not again not again not again - after all those years of agonizing and wondering and -~~

He turns around and walks away.

I

She had been the first.

He’d seen it, just barely. A streak blazing across the sky, brilliant and terrible as the sun going out. And he’d _faltered_. Had paused in his advance, had turned to look. Had felt instinct take him, _deserting_ his place, wings beating before he’d even realized his hands were full of feathers dissolving into light. Unforgivable lapse, they’d _trusted_ him, he was their _leader_ and he’d broken strategy just to dive. To intercept her path to Hell and hope to catch her. 

The best of them. The brightest, most _beloved_. 

All desperation and love. He’d thought those emotions would guide him, lend him strength and conviction and help him press his point. Felt foolishly confident in the purity of his goals, let his hubris lead them eager to their own perdition. And now his world had collapsed, a black hole, everything sucked inexorably inwards towards one terrible, final point. 

She was falling so _fast_.

Moisture had flown into his face, splashing dark into his eyes. He’d let the wind push it out, too _frightened_ to press his fingers to his skin and see. He didn’t want to know. 

Instead he stretched out, urgent, grasping, arms suddenly growing weighted and substantial. Had pulled her to him with a violence that betrayed his mindless distress, cradled her head against his chest and let the clouds expel him from their once tender embrace. 

And still he would have gone back. Would have carried her, protected her, _defended_ her no matter how increasingly obvious the handicap. Would have gone back to save his brothers, to keep them, to do _anything_ as long as he could stop any more cataclysmic blows. But. He’d glanced past his feet, into that bright and perfect blue, and seen another shining meteor arcing away. _Down_.

And he’d let the momentum take him, the friction of his descent turning to fire. Had closed his eyes with her too warm against his chest and, blasphemously, _prayed_ she wouldn’t burn away in his arms. 

X

"One of your brothers approached me the other day," Lord Diavolo says idly, sipping from his glass.

Lucifer freezes, feels fear like toxin spreading through and paralyzing. _Fuck_. Which one of them was it? _Fuck!_ If they insulted the Prince, directly to his _face_ \- He places his drink on the table, unwilling to take the risk of dropping it, to maintain anything less than perfect composure in the face of this new disaster.

"Oh?" He asks, voice carefully neutral. It couldn't have been Belphegor, he can take comfort in that at least. The lazy demon never would have bothered with the trip. Neither Asmodeus or Beelzebub would have been too pressed either; they were plenty occupied by their own diversions. Leviathan hardly left his room, let alone the house . . . That left. Oh. _Oh no_. Mammon, who might have tried to con grimm out of the Prince - already a horrifying prospect on its own - or. _Satan_.

Lucifer closes his eyes, already dreading the repercussions of this lapse in control. But _hells_ , what is he supposed to do? He's hardly ever at home, he can barely manage the work he's been given. He can't take charge of them from afar, he doesn't have the reach, the command, the _respect_ that he used to. He is only a shadow of who he was before. Resentment floods through him - at this impossible situation, at the events (and _demons_ ) that have forced his hand, the things he's chosen and the twists of fate and coincidence. Everything is only luck and consequences.

"Yes." The Prince is talking. Lucifer suppresses all his emotion and turns back to the conversation at hand. Ready if not willing. "He was incredibly persistent. Almost _forced_ Barbatos to make him an appointment when he couldn't get in to see me."

"He made an _appointment?_ " Lucifer asks, furrowing his brow. He reassesses his brothers . . . which one of them might actually bother to go through the trouble? Perhaps Asmodeus, at a stretch Leviathan. _Certainly_ Satan. But for what _purpose?_

He frowns. "Which one?"

Lord Diavolo shakes his head. "The greedy one. You remember, he tried to pawn off one of those hideous statues from the lower gardens? Frankly I was tempted to let him take it, that thing is horrendous."

"If I recall correctly that was an Egyptian Serqet statue made of _gold_ ," Lucifer says, swallowing the humiliation of that memory.

"Yes, but so _gaudy_. And the proportions have always seemed strange to me." Well, he's a Prince. He certainly doesn't have to account for his own taste. "Mammon! That was his name!"

 _Mammon_. Well, it's not the best, but it certainly isn't the cataclysm that it could have been. Lucifer sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I see. I apologize on behalf of my brother for the imposition. I'll have a stern word with him when I see him next."

"That could be tomorrow, if you like," Lord Diavolo takes a swig of his Demonus, mischief clear in the sparkle of his eyes. "Although I must say, I don't think it will be necessary."

"And why not?"

"Our appointment was of mutual interest to me," he says cryptically.

Lucifer frowns. "Please tell me you didn't furnish him with any funds. I'll take the liberty of disappointing you now to let you know that your investment won't net any returns, _before_ you lose too significant an amount."

"On the contrary. I think it was money well spent."

There's a pounding in his head; right at the site of his horns, where they burst into sudden, smoky existence. He furiously smothers the urge to let them out, no matter the extent of his vexation. "My Lord, I will have to insist that he return every grimm. Please be ready to collect it at the beginning of next week."

"I refuse," the Prince says easily. Lucifer sighs, resists the urge to let it extend into a groan. "You can't indulge him like this, my Lord. He'll only get worse."

"Well, let's call this a one-time investment, then."

"You really won't accept a refund?" Lucifer asks. The demon Prince shakes his head, smiling and obstinate, and Lucifer picks up his glass. They're going to need another bottle.

XI

"Ya need to take a break."

He's accosted by the criminal the second he sets foot in the house. His eyes narrow, black and red, blood and boiling. "What did you do?"

"What- Nothin'!" It comes out too quickly and he coughs, clears his throat. “Nothing,” he tries again, more measured. "I just ain't seen ya in a while. Thought you might need to relax a little."

"And _why_ would you think that?" 

To his irritation, his second doesn't wilt under his glare. "Look, Luci." (Eyes _narrowed_ at the impropriety of the nickname. He's only lucky no one else is around to hear it, or he'd actually have to _do_ something). "No one's saying ya can't do it, alright? We all know you're the most competent demon in the Devildom."

"I believe that's actually Barbatos," Lucifer interjects, but he relaxes.

"Who, _that_ weirdo?"

"Mammon . . . "

"Alright, alright, sorry! I'm sure he's real good at his job, or whatever," Mammon says, putting his hands up, placating. "But all I'm sayin' is, I know you're workin' your ass off for that demon prince-" ("Lord Diavolo," Lucifer says, immediate), "right, yeah, an' I can't remember the last time we even _saw_ you at the house."

Lucifer doesn't _quite_ flinch, but he must have some sort of tell because Mammon's voice gets all soft, just the way it used to when they were younger, higher and far away. When it had been just the two of them, Lucifer and his right-hand after a long day of doing drills, of revising plans. And later, of checking strategies, morale, their own, impossible chances. When they had both realized their outcome was determined and knowing they had to follow through anyway. He remembers the way it had felt, to hear him say it in those early pre-dawn hours, facing down the inevitable conclusion of his selfish crusade. "I'd follow you anywhere. No matter what." And his eyes had been clear and determined and Lucifer had felt that first, perfect wash of love.

He sounds the same way now, even if the words are different. "We're worried about ya, ya know? Even if some a' them aren't all that great at showin' it."

"I'm pretty sure Satan unequivocally hates me," Lucifer says, just because he doesn't quite know how to handle the scale of this emotion.

"Well," Mammon scratches his head. "He's kinda a special case. But hey, ya had your own issues with _your_ dad."

Lucifer shudders. " _Never_ make that comparison again."

"Don't worry. I know you're not the same." He pats him on the shoulder in diverting jocularity. "Otherwise I woulda just stayed up there."

"Assuming they wouldn't have kicked you out anyway." But the words are softened by the brief quirk of his mouth.

"Please, they should be _beggin'_ ta take me back." 

Grinning, easy. A strange routine that feels familiar, that absolute respect undergoing metamorphosis, turning more evenly balanced. Teasing charged with love. With _certainty_. Mammon is the only one he's not ~~afraid~~ hesitant to engage. 

The avatar of Greed falls into step beside him, hands tucked into the back pocket of his jeans.

“Did you need something else?”

“Naw. Just thought we could walk together for a while. Nowhere in particular.” Said with all that forced nonchalance that immediately reveals a plan. Lucifer turns suspicious, wondering if he should be wary too.

“I will need to return to the Prince’s palace soon. I haven’t completed the reports for this month.” Deciding (perhaps foolishly), to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Hmm.” And that’s it. Mammon, being uncharacteristically quiet; a bad sign. Lucifer frowns, about ready to cut his losses and retreat, when they come to a stop in front of heavy wood-paneled doors. Strange. Was this always here?

He really has seen so _little_ of this house.

“What is this.”

But Mammon’s grin has gone sharp, his canines ( _fangs_ ) poking out over his bottom lip. He half-bows, leaning forwards, hand on the doorknob. And pushes it open.

Lucifer is struck still. Mammon cocks an eyebrow, stalks ahead of him into the open space. Marble tiled floors, a rich carpet. Shelves, filled with a handful of books and some crystal decanters. A large, elaborate fireplace, with two simple armchairs. And, at the very back . . . A large, wooden desk. Perfectly polished, thick and heavy.

He only pauses a single other moment before he takes his first steps in, heels clicking on the floors. Mammon is leaning heavily against the desk, arms crossed smugly over his chest. “Whaddaya think?”

Lucifer moves towards the chair, lets his hand brush against the back. He can’t feel it through his gloves, but there’s give. It looks comfortable. _Expensive_.

“Is this what Lord Diavolo was trying to hint at?” he murmurs, brow furrowing. 

His brother wilts, transparent. “Oh. So ya knew.” 

“I didn’t know anything,” he says honestly. Wanders back to the centre of the room, picks up an empty glass, resting on a small coffee table. It sparkles in the light. “Where are we?”

He can guess. But Mammon throws his arms wide, looking _proud_. Excited by his success and eager to share it. Lucifer can feel something in his chest softening, a hundred, a _thousand_ years melting - all that stress, those long nights, the frequent disrespect. Sloughing off, revealing the crystal purity of his once golden heart. He's . . . _touched_.

“It’s your study!”

“My study.” He turns in place, taking in the size of it, the elegance. Every piece chosen with precision. Thought. “It’s lovely.”

“So ya like it?” Eyes shining, even through his yellowed shades.

“It’s very well done. I might even venture to say that I’m impressed.” Mammon’s posture goes straight, flush with the praise. “I never would have thought this was what Lord Diavolo had meant.”

The reaction is instant. Lucifer can’t understand how Mammon ever manages to gamble, his every thought is telegraphed _so_ clear on his face. He deflates instantly, air blowing out of him quicker than a balloon. For the first time in quite a while, Lucifer is struck by the thought that Mammon actually is . . . pretty _cute_.

“I mean, ya should pro’ly go tell him thanks and stuff. Ya know, when ya go to get all that work ya left over there.”

He considers letting him wallow. Perhaps he’ll even do that adorably bashful thing he used to do, scuffing the toes of his boots against the carpet. Making his desire for approval so pronounced it would be pure cruelty to withhold it. On the other hand, the rug does look awfully valuable. Better not let him get too far into his own head.

"Oh, it wasn't him. I was informed he put someone reliable in charge of the project."

"Oh." Mammon fidgets in place. _Adorably_ obvious and oblivious about it. "Did he say who?"

"He didn't name anyone.” Lucifer pauses, turning to him with a raised brow. “Why, did you see them come in while they were working on it?"

"NO! No, I, uh, I didn't see anyone. Dunno that many demons anyway, ya know?"

"Hmm, I suppose I should have guessed as much. It's too bad. I should have liked to thank them in person."

“Thanked ‘em how?” Hmph. He can almost _see_ grimm manifesting in his mind. Even after all this clear evidence of his affection, they really do bear the curses of their titles. He wonders, idly, what price they'd reach before Mammon would willingly sell him off. (At the very least, he can comfort himself with the thought that it would be _exorbitant_.)

“Well, they have such an excellent understanding of my taste, so perhaps I should hire them as my secretary.”

Mammon barely chokes off a yelp. Ha. Lucifer holds in his chuckle, schooling his face into impassivity.

“Well, it’s too bad I dunno then.” Clearly sweating.

“Yes, I suppose it is.” He hums, letting his eyes rove. “I should still thank Lord Diavolo. I believe he was the one who bankrolled this enterprise.”

“Must’a been expensive.” Mammon says, averting his gaze. Ah, of course. It would have been much easier to do a good job on someone else’s credit. Still. It really _i_ _s_ impeccable.

"Don't worry. He's assured me it was a very worthwhile investment."

"That just means he can keep ya workin' at all hours."

Lucifer almost _snorts_. "So no difference from how it was before."

Silence. That was meant to be a joke ~~but was it really~~. But there's no witty remark, no snippy come-back. He cants his eyes to the side.

Mammon can’t stay still. Keeps looking over, squirming, opening his mouth and saying nothing. Either at a loss for words or unable, just yet, to articulate them. Well, that’s fine. Lucifer has always had more than enough patience to wait him out.

"Are you really okay, Luci?"

Oh.

He takes a moment, lets himself settle into the leather wingback chair, appreciates the marble tile underfoot, the elegant line of his fireplace. Keeps his gaze carefully off of Mammon as he considers the question. His world is upended, the order of his life re-arranged. Fighting and forcing and scavenging just to keep his place. Precarious, always on the verge of falling, falling, out into that hopeless void. When he closes his eyes sometimes he still sees it. The way the clouds dispersed, the way the ground rushed up to meet him. But.

"Yes." He opens the crystal decanter beside him and makes two generous pours. Lifts the extra cup and holds it out to his brother. His _brother_ , who is here and alive and _with_ him. Even now. Even still. That awkward organ in his chest is pumping, firm and doting. Almost _amazed_. "I'm fine."

And he thinks he might actually mean it.

XIII

The breakfast table is nearly empty, save the two of them. Startlingly quiet, almost relaxed. It’s _nice_ , to be able to spend his mornings here. To see what little of them he can, in these small snatches. To be present, surrounded by his family ~~or what meager members of them remain.~~ They don’t always all come down, but.

He’ll take what pieces he can.

"He understands, you know."

The voice startles him, and he puts his paper down. Beelzebub is watching him, uncharacteristically serious. There's still half a fried bat wing on his plate. There's no question who he's talking about. "Does he?"

"He's just mad about stuff. What happened, at the end."

"Yes. I would imagine he is." ~~A bright face, shattered, all that trust misplaced. Light and happiness evaporating into coiling, burning smoke. His arms were too heavy and there was nowhere else to go.~~

"We never talk about her." Beelzebub is still looking at him. His eyes are too bright. "Why not?"

It's an accident, a strange lapse of his self-control. He can't remember being so careless in _centuries_. Beelzebub stares at the shattered remains of Lucifer's mug, coffee seeping into the white tablecloth, spreading like rot.

"Sorry," he says, deceptively mild irritation. "That was careless of me."

“Lucifer—”

“I have work to do.”

“Oh.” Beelzebub’s voice gets low; very quiet. Hurt. “Right.”

He should . . . He has to clean the linens or the stain will set. Darkness, an oil slick, corruption spreading like they had in pristine feathers, a whole world of light turning black.   
Beelzebub is staring forlornly at his remaining bat wing. Untouched.

There’s the suspicion of a ‘Sorry’ sitting somewhere on Lucifer's tongue. But for what? For the dismissal? For the lies? For his unwillingness to see their weakness, his inability to handle all their pain? He can’t, he was never—

He clears his throat. The avatar of Gluttony looks up at him, too cautious. There have to be words, for this, some method to smooth everything back over. Mammon was always better, at this sort of thing. “Could you have one of the Little D’s wash this tablecloth? As soon as possible, please.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

He still isn’t making any move towards his plate. “Thank you.”

Lucifer stands uncomfortably from his place. Tucks the paper under his arm, readies to leave. He has a meeting this morning, in roughly an hour but. He can be early.

He sweeps out of the room without once looking back, unsure what to do even if faced with that lonely misery. Talking to his brothers never used to be this difficult.

He grabs his coat from the front hall. Checks his timepiece, again, unnecessarily. Tries to shove his papers and his pens and (carelessly) a tie into a briefcase sat by the entryway. He’ll have to ask Mammon to speak to Beelzebub, later. Delegation. He was always good at _that_.

XVI

"It's a pleasure to meet you," he says, one hand pressed high against his chest.

"Likewise," the human returns, still looking at him with marked suspicion. Well, that's to be expected, he supposes. They were dragged out of their boring, mortal lives without any warning, after all, only to come face to face with _powerful_ demons. It’s a mark towards their survival that they’re guarded.

“Welcome to the Devildom,” he continues, smiling. He can _feel_ Lord Diavolo at his side, positively beaming with excitement. “You will be in the care of my brothers and I while during your stay. Please, rest assured that you will be well-protected.”

“Rrrrright.” A pause, as they consider him. “Protected from what, exactly?”

“From other demons, of course. Or the various other dangers that might befall a human in this realm. I’ve assigned Mammon to be your primary guardian during this time. He’ll make sure you live out your term.” Words that might carry more weight if the useless, _frustrating_ demon in question wasn’t shirking his responsibilities to gallivant who knew where. “Here’s his number, you should give him a call.”

He watches as they press in the digits, listen to the ring through their D.D.D. This human pet; another chore on the Prince’s increasingly long laundry list. And they look . . . fragile. _Breakable_. Familiar.

He doesn’t like it.

Frankly, he can’t say he agrees with this initiative. The Prince is particularly invested in the outcome of this program — fostering unity between all three realms, _honestly_ , he remembers his own reaction to the Devildom the first time he’d arrived, and even after so many years — but to bring such a defenseless creature into his domain . . . more due diligence might have been the responsible thing to do. ~~Even if **he** was the one ultimately charged with choosing them~~. He frowns at Mammon’s reluctance, looms over the human’s shoulder and growls into the device.

His brother has changed much over the years. He’s _had_ to adapt. Tried his best to camouflage his vulnerable heart under layers of bluster that do little to disguise. Cheating and chasing and still, ultimately, far too . . . . He glowers at the D.D.D. as Mammon makes his squawking excuses.

Lucifer has learned to re-exert his control. With varying degrees of success.

He smiles at the human as the call drops. “There you go. He should be along shortly.”

Notes the skepticism in their eyes. He can’t entirely blame them.

Even now, he doesn’t know if _he_ is comfortable here.

XV

"You adjusted the best out of all of us."

"You jumped in pretty quickly too, though, didn't you? Immediately got yourself a pretty impressive job the second you touched down here."

Lucifer no longer winces at the mention of his bargain. He's made peace with the price he's paid. There isn't a single _second_ where he thinks it wasn't worth it. "Being busy was . . . helpful."

He leans down, plucks a jar of something bright green and alarming off the vanity. “But you’ve been doing much of the same, haven’t you?”

“Don’t be jealous, Lucifer! I can’t help it if people crave my company. If you’re lonely, I’m more than happy to spend some _quality_ time with you!”

Lucifer watches as Asmodeus preens in the mirror, carding his fingers carefully through his hair. About to go out, the regular armour of glitter and hairspray and makeup applied with knife’s edge precision. Rituals transmuted, a different kind of warrior.

Lucifer pauses, frowning. "I just assumed, based on your endless parties and partners. But. Were you _really_ okay?"

"Oh, there was an adjustment period of course," Asmodeus says breezily, glossing over a whole period of his life like a footnote. Lucifer wonders what he would have seen, if he had paid more attention. "But I'm doing _marvelous_ now."

"That's good," he says, instead of 'I'm sorry.' Sorry I wasn't there, sorry I didn't see you, sorry you had to do so much without me. Asmodeus is looking at him in his mirror, a curious look on his face. Too perceptive by half, that one.

"Yeah. It's good." He lifts an atomizer, dusting his neck with bright puffs of perfume. "Anyway, you're here now."

As much as he can be. As much as he knows how.

If only he understood what it was that they _wanted_ from him.

He folds, plucks a set of sparkling amethyst earrings that dangle in his hands. They match his brother’s eyes in the most devastating way. He almost remembers these, gifting them to Asmodeus eons ago, an angel so beautiful he'd seen him and been struck mute. Holds them up against his ear, brushing strawberry-blonde locks out of the way.

Asmodeus purses his lips, but he looks _delighted_. “I’m afraid those don’t match my outfit at _all_.”

  
“That’s too bad. They would look perfect on you.” He fastens one in his ear anyway, a jewel for a jewel. Asmodeus shines just as brightly as he always has. Brighter, maybe, now his surroundings are so dim. All charm and charisma and _loyalty_. He straightens, tugs at his vest. “Have fun tonight.”

“Oh darling, I _always_ do.”

XVII

“Lucifer, _stop_.”

He frowns without looking up, still _very_ much focused on the paperwork before him. His pen is scratching at the page, a soft dragging noise as the nib writes smoothly over pressed paper. He used to use a quill, misses the control of an inkwell, the easy switch of pigments, the _personal_ touch. But this is much more efficient. Especially since some of his brothers have a surprisingly clumsy streak now, and he’s tired of having to redo pages blacked out with ink. “I’m not done yet, so this better be important.”

“Critically.”

He puts down his pen. Looks at the annoying, _interfering_ human in front of him with his full attention. They’re both silent for a touch too long, and it occurs to him they might be waiting for his permission to proceed. That’s almost . . . _refreshingly_ polite. “Go ahead.”

“Something happened. In your bedroom.” 

When he doesn't move to stand the human takes his hand, tugs him forwards impudently like they can leash him as easily as the Devildom’s Prince has. “I was in the middle of—”

“ _Please_ , it’s an emergency!”

He sighs, long suffering, pretends he doesn’t enjoy the feeling of their warmth on his palm. They’ve spent their entire time, here, making a nuisance of themselves, inserting into private family affairs. Arrogant and too confident and almost recklessly charming. Too ready to accept ruinous consequence for their actions. But.

He’s seen more of his brothers since they’ve arrived than he thinks he has in _years_.

Their strides are so much shorter than his. A jogging half step to keep just ahead, pulling him quicker and quicker without any real change to his pace. It would be so much more efficient to just _carry_ them, tiny thing that they are. At least the activity is forcing blood back to his extremities, helping him move himself awake. He'll be able to get through at least another hour of work fairly quickly.

They rush down one hallway . . . two . . . three. Steps muffled in the carpet, paintings passing them, indistinct. Around another corner and then they're standing in front of his bedroom door and he pushes it open and—

“You realize that I’m busy, correct?”

“Of course,” they say, very seriously. He frowns down at them. Looks at his pristine room. Looks back.

“I don’t have time for whatever invented problems—”

“It’s . . .” their voice lowers, nervous, “on your bed . . .”

Oh for— He’s getting a headache just imagining what sort of nonsense his brothers have caused. Maybe he’ll just sleep in his study (again) and deal with whatever this is some other day. Better yet, he can get one of the Little D’s to fix his bed without ever having to know what happened to it.

The human is pushing against his back. Well, he _is_ already here. He swears, if they ruined his brand new Sumerian cotton sheets . . . .

It looks fine. The bed is still impeccably made. He reaches out, regrets leaving his gloves back in his study. If this is some new _curse_ and he lets it get all over him, he'll never live it down. Magic, then. A little flick of it, pulling back the bedspread. Overturning pillows.

Nothing. Not even the slightest hint of dust.

He turns to the human.

Who is no longer behind him. The door is shut. 

He sighs, closing his eyes. Takes several swift strides forwards, turns the knob. The door doesn’t open. He frowns, tries again. 

“SLEEP!” Too loud and too close. He doesn't jump but he's unwillingly _surprised_.

“ _Excuse me_?”

“Mammon!” A _smack_ , followed by a very impressive bout of complaining that earns him a second strike. Lucifer swallows his laughter. Serves him right. “What he _meant_ to say, Lucifer, was that you haven’t left your study in days! You need to take a break.”

“I believe I am perfectly capable of judging my own limits,” he says, crossing his arms, fully aware that they can’t see it.

“We’re worried about you. And you’re always so ahead of your work, just one night of rest isn’t going to kill you.”

“Will you guarantee it?” he asks, half-joking.

“Yes. I swear on Mammon’s credit card.”

“Hey! Don’t go offerin’ up other people’s stuff!”

“Shush! Fine then. I swear on my D.D.D..”

He rolls his eyes. Like Diavolo would ever allow the student to be without such a crucial device. Still though, the thought is almost . . . _sweet_. He places his hands on the knobs again. Lets magic spool out, wrap around whatever spell it is that they’ve placed on the door and—

The exchange student and a handful of his brothers sprawl at his feet as he wrenches them open.

“Oh!” More disappointment than fear, as they peer up at him from around a handful of flailing demon limbs. “Was that not enough? I can swear on my life, instead.”

The air freezes, every one of them going completely still. He was wrong about them, he’s noticing. Far less self-preservation instinct than he’d initially believed. “That won’t be necessary.”

He doesn’t miss the way his brothers all relax. 

“What will it take to convince you? I can tuck you in, if you want.”

Mammon guffaws on top of them, elbowing what looks to be Beelzebub sharply in the side. There’s a _whuff_ of breath as the larger demon shoves everyone off, shaking out and helping the human to standing, none the worse for wear. 

“Then, please.” 

He walks backwards on silent feet, as they all look at him in confusion. “Oh? Unwilling to follow through? What a disappointing lack of conviction.”

“OI! Wait a second—”

Lucifer ushers the human in, shutting the doors in his brother’s faces. The small exchange student doesn’t seem particularly fazed to be alone with him, glancing around his room with curiosity. 

“I’ve never been in here before.”

“Yes, I can’t imagine you’d have much call to be.” He watches as they turn in place, taking in the sparse decor, the untouched sofas, the pristine bed. Fidgeting in place, as though they want to wander. He wonders what this all looks like, through their eyes. What they see in his walls, in his carpet. In his brothers.

He wonders if Lilith would have liked it. Any part of it. This strange terrain, their fractured family, this old and creaky house. A night so heavy with stars it feels like they're at constant risk of falling, a million jewels dropping out of the sky. 

He thinks she might have _loved_ it.

“Well?” They turn to him, uncertain for the first time. They’re actually kind of cute, in this light. Almost like a puppy.

He smiles at them. "Aren't you going to tuck me in?"

XVIII

“What did you do with them?” The two of them are sitting in the Prince's impressive garden, stars twinkling overhead despite the mid-day hour. The floral perfume is heavy, cloying, and if he were with anyone else he thinks he might even be relaxed. Still, this is the most untroubled he's been in . . . he can't even begin to hazard a guess.

So maybe that's why it’s the first time he’s ever thought to ask. 

“What?” 

“My wings,” Lucifer says, as though they’ve been talking about this all along. Diavolo glances over at him, looking puzzled, cup half-raised to his lips. “What do you mean?”

“What did you do with them?” Lucifer repeats, a little slowly, like he thinks perhaps the Prince wasn't listening. (Despite historical evidence that the Prince is, in fact, almost _always_ paying attention to his words). “Don’t tell me they’re on display, somewhere.”

“I think you’d might have noticed if I’d had them mounted,” Diavolo says, snorting. He leans back in his chair, adjusts his legs, stretching out into the grass. “Besides, if I still had them I would have given them back to you centuries ago.”

“So easily?”

“Of course! Their beauty is best expressed on _you_ , Lucifer.”

Lucifer flushes, exasperation and embarrassment. All the Prince's idle jokes; he's never gotten used to them. But he won't make the mistake of being seduced by another authority. ~~Not again~~. “I thought I asked you to tone down your compliments.”

“Oh, did you?” Diavolo asks, laughing.

Lucifer frowns, covers his bashfulness with a sip of Barbatos’ exquisite tea. The frequency is wearing him down, loathe as he is to admit it, even if he's still wary enough to trust in its sincerity. “So you got rid of them then.”

“Do you actually not know what they were used for?”

“You _used_ them for something? What could they possibly have been good for?”

Diavolo hums, looking thoughtful, out beyond the boundaries of his estate. The millions of lights scattered over ground, below this notable elevation, a fluid mirror of the sky. His voice is uncharacteristically soft. “They carried your sister through her life.”

He freezes, muscle by muscle, all that terrifying biology. Crosses one leg over the other, feels the strange physics of force and weight holding him in place. There's a suggestion of ruffling at his back but . . . No. His wings remain tucked away. Besides. There's nowhere for him to fly. All his escape routes have been cut away. “What?”

“I was willing to shoulder the cost of making her human — it was more than worth it to have you in my corner. But you must to have realized it was a difficult thing to do.”

A flinch. He doesn't need to be reminded of the scale of his debt. “I did assume it would be.”

“I used your wings to supplement the exchange. A sort of after-spell addendum. One to take her to the human realm, and the other to guard her. Rather like a blessing, I suppose.”

Diavolo looks over at him, finally, when the silence stretches past polite. The demon at his side is staring resolutely into the surface of his drink, eyes half-lidded. The prince opens his mouth, but—

“Sacrilege,” Lucifer murmurs.

His face is gentle.

XIX

There’s a jolt, a rumble and a crash as something almost egregiously large (and probably _expensive_ ) makes impressive impact with one of the house’s repetitively reinforced surfaces. Irritation surges through him; his fingers flexing into fists. But.

He hears a shriek that might be laughter, the echo of footsteps screaming down the halls. They sound . . . happy. They sound _alive_. 

He relaxes his hands, smooths the wrinkled fabric of his vest. Adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves and lets the cacophonous noise rattle in his bones. He’s not quite calm, exactly. But he can probably let them enjoy themselves for just a _little_ bit longer. Besides, it sounds like they’ve already achieved the maximum damage it’s possible for them to do. 

(They _haven’t_. Not by a long shot. But he doesn’t know that _yet)._

He takes in a deep breath, slightly musty; dust and years and closeness. Feels the stirrings of a smile and . . . something soft and warming as the geothermal vents where he and the Prince sometimes go to relax. 

Someone is thundering up towards him, footsteps pounding through the ground like the baseline of percussion and he straightens, lets the glower fall affectionately over his face. They’ve got too much momentum to stop now, he can hear it, and he could almost laugh at the face they’re going to make when he catches them. 

He snaps his coat and turns around.

II

It was Black. Dim and studded with aggressive glowing points, bolides disappearing as they broke the crest of the sky. He counted them off, forcing himself to stare upright even as he could feel a terrible stillness settling against him. 

He had to let her go. His grip was too strong, he might have saved her from the impact but the paralytic of his despair would crush her. Repeated reason to himself and tried to force his hands to cooperate. She’d turned so _cold_. A being of light frozen into ice, the cooling of a star. 

He held her out, let her lay loose across him. Tried to focus on the tangled mess of her hair so he could ignore that she was incomplete. There were . . . _parts_. Pieces of her missing so he couldn’t reconcile the puzzle of her form. A void where there should have been _more_.

His chest was constricting. He’d thought at first it was only heartbreak, his vision swimming, growing hazy, but he was so _weak_ , nearly bending over her and— A deep breath, and it _hurt_ , air _shredding_ through his throat. Lungs gasping as he realized the rules were different, now. Felt a leaking, strange and unfamiliar, from his eyes. Something wet carving painful gouges down the curve of his cheek, steaming and angry.

So. He had not been fully of his mind when the demon Prince approached. Found the two of them, dead and determined for it and made an impossible offer. 

This had not been what he’d been led to believe he would be met with, in this pocket of creation. This demon (Prince, of all things) had seen him and _smiled_. Had met him at his impact site, taken in the tableau of his naked misery and seized upon opportunity with gold eyes glinting. Had offered a miracle more impossible than Lucifer himself had previously been capable of for his service, as though that were worth anything, now. 

It might have been compassion if he hadn’t read the Machiavellian implication in the bargain. But everything had careened away from him so quickly, his forces subdued, his strategies laughable in the face of omniscience. Forced pawns in another of his Father’s unsubtle games. Created for servitude, for judgement, for the calm and ordered security of example and punishment. 

Luck and consequences. The unfair device of dramatic irony guiding his every move, breath, thought. Had any of his plans been truly his own? Had he ever done _anything_ for himself? Even now, staring into a face that bled empathy despite being unable to understand it, he wondered. Was this also some grander, ineffable design?

The shock of it had been enough. He’d resigned himself to their fate but even the slimmest chance . . . He’d looked off, peering into the impossible darkness, every other shape distorted and vague. Tried to make sense of this world with eyes unused to grasping such meager illumination. He hadn’t wanted hope but now, having it dangled so easily before him . . . 

He’d stared past the figures in front of him as though he were deliberating and tried to grasp that barest touch of life.

And so this is how it started. He prefaced his most selfless act with his most selfish. Held her broken in his arms and cradled his last few, precious moments of freedom. He had never needed a single breath to decide; his answer immutable,‘No’ never even an inchoate shape in his throat. 

He had been ready from the first. He’d chased her helplessly, _futilely_ , into that disappearing horizon. Had discarded all his plans, his glory, just for a little. More. _Time_. And now here he was, faced with an unthinkable contract. His last, undeserved miracle.

Lucifer stared into the tragedy of her face, seeing _yesterday_ instead of now. Forced himself to acknowledge the shattered planes, the broken angles. Carved this image into his mind like an extra penance to be paid. (And she was so _heavy_ , so frighteningly _physical_. Every gash leaking poison and flame. Killing them both the longer he delayed).

And so.

“I swear myself to you, Lord Diavolo.”

Trading just one master for another. 

And he thinks, looking out, trying to remember the paths the rest have taken. Maybe desperation and love are terrible things after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> If the Mammon simp _jumped_ out I'm sorry

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [c'est la vie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26569936) by [Take_Me_To_My_Fragile_Dreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Take_Me_To_My_Fragile_Dreams/pseuds/Take_Me_To_My_Fragile_Dreams)




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